


Wolves in Iceland

by TakingFlight48



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Wolverine (Movies)
Genre: Apparition Malfuntion, Cannot get out, Doesn't want to leave, F/M, Hermione is tired of waiting, Hermione's Haven, Hermione's Holiday Hideaway 2020, Liberal Use of Magic, M/M, Multi, Past-Relationship with Fenrir, She gathers the courage to proposition them, She wants both these hulking men, Snowed In, mentions of M/M, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakingFlight48/pseuds/TakingFlight48
Summary: A wicked winter storm interrupts Hermione’s international apparition to Greenland, landing her in an isolated mountain range needing to find the nearest shelter.  Thankfully two very accommodating men reside within.  They bond over baking holiday cookies so much that Hermione wants so much more than to wait out the storm with them.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fenrir Greyback/Logan (Wolverine)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19
Collections: Hermione's Holiday Hideaway 2020





	Wolves in Iceland

**Author's Note:**

> A huge shout-out to the mod-mins of Hermione's Haven for putting this fun event together. I signed up against my better judgement and my alpha's sanity and so glad I did. This was written for Hermione's Holiday Hideaway 2020 -- so cheers for living vicariously through Hermione while we are all tucked safe and very much at home.
> 
> **My prompts were as follows:**
> 
> **Pairing: Hermione/Fenrir Greyback/Logan (Wolverine)  
>  Location: Reykjavik, Iceland  
> Holiday Tradition Prompt: Baking Cookies  
> **
> 
> Cheers and unending love to [Kiwi05622](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwi05622/works) for her Alpha work and her always impeccable graphics. xxx
> 
> Enjoy ☮ ✌

****

* * *

**December 24, 2020**

She stood, arms wrapped tightly around her, gaze caught on the crystalline particles decorating the already white snowscape as far as her eye could see. Unlike rain which fell and joined to collect in a pool amongst the earth, snow fell as an individual, each one laying over the other but not mixing, not yet. They needed heat, an increase in temperature to urge the individuals to mould and writhe into something new. She hoped to be as fiery as the heat tonight, eager to finally mix and blend with the owners of this home, even if it had only been a magical mishap that brought her here a week earlier. 

* * *

**_December 18, 2020_ **

_Hermione landed with a grunt; the air stolen from her lungs as if something had physically bunted her out of her journey west, and the drastic temperature change had her gasping for stability._

_It only took her a few short moments to realise she was stuck in a decidedly violent snowstorm. Knowing the chance of a new position within the ICW’s head office in NYC awaited her, Hermione tugged her beanie firmly around her reddening ears, squared her shoulders and prepared for another attempt._

_“Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. Focus, Granger. Do it.” And so she did._

_She pictured the two-storied airport—covered in floor to ceiling windows—to the left of the grey landing strip. Furthering her resolve, Hermione valiantly ignored the ice crystals swirling and sticking to the limited skin exposed to the elements. She imagined the iconic red pole, with white metal arrows pointing to various locations around the world. And finally saw the dull egg-shell equipment building she needed to apparate behind and willed herself there. Her navel tugged, her lips twitched, and her body began to contract and disappear into the nothingness around her. And then nothing. It was as if an external force had arrived and unplugged her attempt._

_Unwilling to expose herself to hypothermia and magical exhaustion, Hermione quickly considered and disregarded various options to get herself to relative safety. Worst-case scenario Hermione could pitch the tent Luna had left in her bag and spend the night there, hoping the storm would pass enough for her to try again tomorrow. Ultimately, however, Hermione decided on her updated point me spell. First layering strong warming charms and an improvised, full-body impervious spell, Hermione placed the Holly wand—her loyal companion now for over twenty years—on her covered palm. She almost cried in relief when it stopped spinning, tip pointed towards her heart, confirming there was shelter within five miles of her current position. Turning to face the correct direction, Hermione blessed Morgana for Ginny’s morning running routine, certain that even at 41 her endurance would hold._

_She made her way through the storm, adjusting her direction as her wand continued to point her steadily towards—something. Just when she was about to give up, teeth clattering, shoulders shivering even with her various magical protections and physical layers, a new colour flickered against the white landscape. Hermione picked up the pace with renewed energy, soul settling as the small yellow lights in the distance transformed into a cosy, snow-covered home._

_Her relief was full-bodied when she finally felt something other than snow crunching under her booted feet._

_Keeping her wand arm slightly behind her body, Hermione dropped her charms and knocked on the wooden door. The biting chill of the winds, more potent in the absence of her charms, had her boots clunking rhythmically as she marched in place until a muffled sound from inside forced her to still and straighten up._

_Slowly the worn wood gave way to an inviting living room providing the backdrop to the tightest set of abs she had seen in recent years. Her eyes, ignoring common courtesy, traced the scars littering his tanned skin. She greedily followed the defined dip of his adonis belt slipping under the low-hung grey joggers that left very little to her suddenly vulgar imagination. The abs contracted delightfully as the voice associated with the body coughed. Through sheer force of will, she finally brought her gaze up to his. She found assessing hazel eyes dancing with mischief, head cocked to the side, shifting his dishevelled brown hair with it._

_Wetting her suddenly dry lips, Hermione searched for the right series of words to explain why she was at his door. “Hello, hi, yes. Well, I am lost. That seems to be the sum of it. The longer answer is well, longer and it’s so bloody cold, I would appreciate maybe not being in a blizzard to relay it.”_

_Hermione sucked in a breath after she wheezed out the last few words, eyes wide at how ridiculous she was acting. She was no blushing virgin, but this man was just so...large. He let out a small chuckle, one brow raised, right cheek dimpling at her, as the underside of his forearm rippled while he further tousled his short brown hair. “Do I amuse you?” She bit out, her body shivering as the icy wind pushed harder into her._

_“Logan, what’s the bloody hold-up!” A deep, British baritone barked from within, and for a moment Hermione thought the man, Logan apparently, would close the door on her face. Instead, he pushed it open wider, stepping to the side as another man, larger still than the hulking form before her, entered the living room. This Grecian perfection was also underdressed, bearing nothing but a small apron and pants sitting low on his hips._

_Hermione’s thoughts short-circuited, her mind firmly on his broad shoulders, corded arms and pectorals, and thick clenching thighs peeking out either side of the apron with each step towards them. So when the tray he had been carrying in his hand fell, what looked like balls of cookie dough smattering about the wooden floor, Hermione’s wand arm flew into action. Silent cleaning and levitating charms poured forth as she returned the tray and the clean and ready dough to the man's hands._

_In the next heartbeat, Hermione looked up, shock written all over her face as she realised two things. One, she had just exposed these strangers to magic; two that the second man was no stranger at all, but Fenrir Greyback himself._

_“Greyback?” she breathed out._

_“Well, fuck me, that’s not just a stick.” The Logan bloke broke the mounting tension, a deep rich accent distracting her from the man she hadn’t seen since his release from probation twelve years ago. “Best come in then, girl.”_

_Hermione bristled at the seemingly American man. Stepping into his space, neck craned up to stare him down; she spat, “Call me a girl again, and you’ll see what else I can do with this stick.”_

_Throwing his hands up in mock surrender, he beckoned her forward, bowing low, hazel eyes boring into her own._ _As Hermione shed her many layers, leaving her in nothing but a white undershirt and black leggings, she had been shocked to discover she ended up in Iceland; quite a distance from her original destination._

* * *

**Present:**

Her light laugh—as memories of that first night filled her—pressed condensation into the window and Hermione had the strangest urge to write their initials into it. She had been there a week now, and by her estimations, the blizzard had barely let up. There had been a snowless moment two days previous. She had managed to send a Patronus to Theo, asking him to spread the word that she was safe and did not require a rescue team. Out of all her friends, he would take her at her word rather than attempt to find her and cause a massive ruckus.

Logan had gotten quite the chuckle from the message even as she playfully scowled at him, Fen almost crowding her on the couch, arm lightly playing unknown patterns up and down her back. They had been perfect gentlemen as the blizzard raged on. No matter how many times she insisted she could sleep on the couch, thanks to magic, they would not hear of it, leaving her the occupant of the sole bedroom. Turning slightly, Hermione eyed the impressive bed. It was large, not two smaller beds as she had first assumed, and Hermione was eager to fill it, something she could scarcely do alone. 

Seeing Fen again had been...unexpected. Working on first Prison reform, and then Prisoner reform had surprised everyone, but mostly herself. However, as nineteen-year-old Hermione had argued the need for substantial magical rebuilding and recuperation, she had inadvertently taken on the justice system from the outside in. Ultimately, this had been the beginning of her first significant change to the wizarding world following the war. 

Greyback had been a controversy, to be sure. Still, after serving five years in Azkaban, adhering to all the new rules and changes that Hermione pushed forth, he had been one of the first to volunteer under the new program—volunteer and succeeded. They had worked closely together. So close in fact that he had worked off his community service time as her right-hand man. A year before the end of his probationary period she had stayed late after an impromptu meeting, indulging in some wine with him in his flat and they had woken up tangled around each other. For a month, she had been ashamed of her unprofessional behaviour, almost throwing herself off the project and putting Theo in her stead. But Kingsley and Theo had urged her to see the first success story to its end. And she had, and they had continued to work and sleep with each other, growing closer in what Hermione had considered a promising manner. 

However, the day after the public pronouncement of his ‘freedom’, and private celebration in her bedroom, she awoke alone. There had been a short note begging her forgiveness but admitting he needed to start fresh even if it meant without her, and would never attempt to take her from England. She had understood, she had so much more to do then, but it had still stung, even if he claimed never to forget her. 

Seeing him now though, so at ease, so rested with Logan, she knew it had been exactly what he needed. It had felt like a weight had lifted off her shoulders, a confirmation that it hadn’t been about her, even as she chided her selfish thoughts. 

A crash and boisterous laughter echoed through her thoughts before Logan’s teasing tones slipped through the crack. “Hermione, Fen desperately needs your help out here. These cookies won’t make themselves!”

Fen and Hermione’s voices blended as they shouted, “Biscuits!” at the Canadian man. When their laughter died down, she added, “I’m coming.” 

She heard something thump against the door before Logan’s voice, closer still, growled, “That’s my good girl.” A shiver, unattributed to the weather, fired through her. She heard his firm steps pace back into the larger living space and turned around to the window, taking deep calming breaths. They had been baking since she arrived. The fallen cookie dough, she learned, was Fen’s failed attempts at baking holiday ‘cookies’. 

* * *

**_December 18, 2020_ ** _\- later_

_After they had gotten the pleasantries out of the way, Logan followed Greyback, telling her to make herself at home over his shoulder. Huffing, Hermione ensured her winter gear was dry before storing it in her small backpack before walking the open floor plan’s perimeter._

_Unable to avoid it any longer she had stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. Hermione felt a twinge in her gut at seeing the men so comfortable, so at ease with each other. She could tell there was something profound and natural between them. Logan, the Wolverine as he had explained to her, stood with his back to her, back muscles rippling, delicious dimples on his lower back winking at her with his every move._

_Eyes darting to the large Wizard, who now, unfortunately, donned black joggers, she followed his arm muscles contracting as he mixed a powdery bowl violently. It had been too long since she felt arousal pool low in her gut if it only took lustful thoughts about the muscles of two wolf-like men to consume her. Their broad hands, attached to the broader forms, would look marvellous against her—Hermione cleared her throat as she finally stepped into the battleground. With both eyes on her, curious hazel and shuttered gold, she swallowed, shooting them a grimace, “I’m shit at cooking, but I can bake?”_

_With a grunt, Greyback beckoned her over with his head, long wavy hair flying over his shoulder at the movement while Logan groaned. “He’s been trying to make chocolate chip cookies for the holidays. Something about wanting to create new traditions, but we are fucking shit at baking, collective disaster really. So you may be just what we needed.”_

_Hermione felt heat curl over her jaw and down her neck as she leaned over the counter and averted her gaze to the sticky pile of something Greyback was attempting to mix. Rolling her blush off her shoulders, Hermione spent an hour walking them both through the right way to make chocolate chip cookies or súkkulaðibitakökur and laughing as Logan insisted on eating half the batch raw. Once they were in the oven, she had suggested they attempt a traditional Icelandic cookie, Mamma’s cookies or Mömmukökur._

_As Hermione was adding eggs to the cooled mixture of butter, syrup, and sugar, Logan finally started to ask more personal questions. Greyback had been following her instructions, silent but diligent, and it had been Logan and Hermione who had carried the bulk of the conversation. “How do you know so much about Icelandic traditions?” Greyback chuckled as if knowing the answer, finally muttering, “Bibliophile.”_

_She tossed flour at the tosser before answering Logan with as straight a face as she could muster, “Although I do have a ravenous appetite—” At Greybacks gasping cough and Logan’s lascivious smirk she quickly amended, face burning hot under the dual gazes. “For reading!” Throwing flour at Logan as well, she added, “I have felt a pull towards this country, it’s traditions, and language for some time now. I learned to bake from my grandmother and have had an affinity for it. When I expanded my baking horizons, I discovered these recipes; they were kept with such care and handed down with such love. It was easy to remember. Did you know it's tradition to make upwards of twelve different holiday cookies and distribute them to loved ones?”_

_Instructing Greyback on how he should fold the dry and wet ingredients together, she finally allowed herself to get close enough to touch him. Gently, she asked, “So Greyback, how long have you been here?”_

_“Fen...I don’t go by that surname anymore. Left it behind in England…” like I did you, remained unspoken._

_“Oh,” Hermione said, unsure how to respond, the dull ache in her gut throbbing, even after all this time._

_Grey—Fen took some time to respond, slowing his kneading and finally turning his rich, golden eyes onto her. “Saved Logan from some crazy mutant war. But we only come up here during holiday. We live just north of New York City; he’s a teacher there for exceptionally gifted children.”_

_Hermione froze. Could it be this easy? Could Fen live in the same area she was relocating her entire life to? Settling a hand over his arm, muscle twitching under her hold, she urged him to stop his mixing. “It needs to cool now, overnight,” Hermione murmured at his questioning stare, Logan suspiciously silent in her peripheral vision._

_With a nod, she had shown him how to wrap it in clear wrapping she had miraculously located amongst their drawers. Cleaning off the worktop, they spent the rest of the evening in semi-stilted conversation as the two men warmed up to Hermione’s presence._

* * *

**Present:**

It had taken a few days of further baking all sorts of holiday cookies for Hermione to feel the same easy energy she had with Fen from over a decade before. Slowly, the men shouted their desire for her in their touches, through their gazes, in their proximity. When she read on the wide couch, the men always sat just a little closer than the day before, until they could rest their head in her lap or hers in theirs. The way Logan would toy with her hair made her blood thrum and the way Fen would rub her arm, her hand, her back, soothed her lonely soul. 

After a particularly heated moment where Fen had licked the icing off her clavicle, a breathy moan entering the space between all three, she knew it was time to act. 

As it was Christmas Eve, Fen had been insistent that they leave her favourite cookie for last, so Hermione had chosen, spesíur, or traditional Icelandic shortbread cookies with chai. But, instead of baking, as the men expected, she was hoping for something else. Before she could talk herself out of it any longer, she was going to present an alternative activity for the three of them—it was time to inject heat so they could mould into one. 

Hermione had glimpsed the men stagger out of the bathroom rather flushed a few times; Fen’s silencing charms shoddy with lack of practice and Hermione wanted them both. Even if she was wrong, and they were not actually together, the lustful glances she received as she wore shorter shorts and tighter tops, gave her the confidence to shrug out of Fen’s resized robe, leaving it discarded by the window. 

With the determination she wore as she entered the Wizengamot, Hermione made her way—bright red bow over her breasts and a smaller one over her shaved quim—through the last barrier between her and the two bulking men. She knew just what she wanted for Christmas, and it was to feed a different type of hunger Logan and Fen had ignited.

**Author's Note:**

> Welllllll there you have it :) 
> 
> I like to think, like the end of a year, this is the end of Hermione's unspecified dry spell. Sigh - again living vicariously and all that. HAPPYYYYY almost new year. Blessings to you and yours and may this upcoming year be the year you KICK ARSE in whatever goal, big or small, you chose to. 
> 
> Thanks to Grammarly for her robotic support and my beta - myself - is to blame for any errors still lingering here.
> 
> Please leave love in words or kudos as they motivate and uplift.
> 
> ॐ


End file.
